


Something to Be

by AnInternationalReputation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Use, F/M, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnInternationalReputation/pseuds/AnInternationalReputation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about being Sherlock Holmes, and what that might possibly mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something to Be

**Author's Note:**

> There is no singular trans narrative. The characters in this story are not intended to be prime examples of what it means to be trans, or role models of how to be, but only individuals being as genuine to themselves as they can be.
> 
> Tags and rating are subject to change as the story evolves.

She says she started do-it-yourself hormone replacement at age fifteen.

"Terribly dangerous, of course. I know that now," she explains, tucking her feet underneath her as she shifts in the chair. "And when my father discovered I was doing it, he tossed me out... I like to think that's why Mum left him, in the end. Well, that and she was much happier afterwards."

He tips his head to one side, eyes lowering to the slope that forms the back of her thigh. "And your mum's all right with it?"

"She was only disappointed I hadn't told her sooner." She smiles, red-painted lips pressed together. The movement only shows up in his peripheral vision, but it's impossible to ignore. "I went through a minor menopause in the midst of all the drama, but by my eighteenth birthday I was getting oestrogen through official channels."

Age eighteen to the present. Added to the indeterminate number of months between fifteen and menopause, that's two to four years of total time.

* * *

Irene first noticed Vera when she caught her _(him)_ staring at the button on her bag. It wasn't by any means a long stare: two full seconds at most, by the time Irene noticed, but given the line of sight between Vera's desk and Irene's bag on the floor, it wasn't a difficult catch. In hindsight. Vera hadn't been expecting her to be quite so sharp.

Should have done so. Irene Adler exudes _sharp_ — from her perfectly-pinned hair to the pointed edges of her smile, from her meticulously stylish dresses to the ends of her heels. In a crowd of students who often neglect showering and turn up to class in torn jeans and too-large jumpers, Irene always looks put-together. Vera mistook the attention to personal appearance for an exercise in self-absorbed, empty-headed vanity. Hindsight.

The button had stood out because it was a white dot on a black bag. It was also out of place. Part of Irene's measured stylishness was always a lack of logos or insignia. She didn't flash labels around, especially not in the form of round, plastic-covered, pin-backed buttons. Except for this one. It was white, and the symbol on it was black: a circle with three prongs. The prongs were, in clockwise order: an arrow, a cross, and an arrow with a line through the shaft, as if the first two had been combined into the third.

Irene had seen Vera looking. For half of a second, their eyes had met, and then Vera had turned away.

* * *

"Two years, then."

"Three and a half, all together." Irene leans her head in one hand, her elbow against the back of the chair, eyelids lowered to keep her eyes on Vera. Examining him examining her.

Her other hand is resting against a bare knee, both of which are still folded in front of her. She has small hands. Relatively small, considering the circumstances. The point being that if one didn't know she was transgender, one couldn't quote-unquote 'prove' she was by looking at her hands. Her skin is visibly soft, rounded in the arms, thighs, and belly by subcutaneous fat. Her waist is quite straight, and there's a natural strength to her jawline, but —

"You know you really shouldn't do that."

There's a heavily serious tone to that, a warning, and it's enough to break Vera out of his examination, blinking. "Do what?"

"Try and figure out which parts of me are still a man." Irene raises an eyebrow. "For one thing, I never was. This body—" She sweeps a hand from shoulder to hip, "—is all mine."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And I'm a woman."  
  
Vera feels the space between her _(his)_ eyebrows start to crease. "Obviously."  
  
"Not to everyone."  
  
She's back to examining him, and he no longer has the least idea what she's looking for. So his speech is measured, when he speaks again.  
  
"I wasn't thinking of it in those terms."  
  
When he looks at her, she's smiling. Like she thinks he's sweet.  
  
"You were wondering what _you'll_ look like in three and a half years."

* * *

Vera already has a new name picked out. She _(_ _he)_ — hasn't told anyone about it yet, so it's much easier for now to keep answering to 'Vera.' Vera's better than _Guinevere_ , anyway, which sounds like syrup dripping off the edge of a spoon. Or  _Ginny_ , which nobody ought to be called past the age of eleven. But the new name is even better than better. He can imagine responding to it without a hitch, without so much as a blink. Without even the micro-second's worth of slip-up that occurs when he mentally refers to himself with the wrong pronoun.

Sherlock Scott.

 _Sherlock_ was a lucky bit of cleverness. Vera has no particular attachment to his present name, which left him with no particular direction to begin looking in for a new one. Looking through lists of names meant at least some consideration for the etymology. _Guinevere_ means 'fair, white.' There are some disputes about the exact meaning of _Sherlock_ , but one of the proposed meanings is 'fair-haired.' It has the added bonus of being equally as unusual a name, if not more so. He's not going through this if it means turning out _dull_.

There wasn't nearly as much consideration behind _Scott_. Middle names are meant to be afterthoughts, if they're even thought of at all.  _Scott_ is straightforward and serviceable as a middle name. Clearly masculine, puts a nice percussive comma between the first and last. It may not have been chosen with much deliberateness, but it's stuck.

He likes the thought of being Sherlock Scott Holmes, very much.

* * *

"There's no guarantees." She shrugs and sighs, settles both hands on her knees. "But there _would_ be changes." She stands, then, sauntering across the short distance between her chair and his. His eyes make another sweep over the entirety of her body — it occurs that he doesn't know whether to think of that one particular part as being a penis or a clitoris, but... as she said. It belongs to her.

She touches the back of an index finger to his face. "I think you'll be quite handsome — just imagine those cheeks hollowing out."

His hands have tightened on the arm rests. He feels hot under his shirt, under the sports bra over his chest, and is doing his best to ignore that.

But he can imagine it.  _Has_ imagined it, silently and in secret, before he could even begin to conceive of the real-world meaning behind the images. Has always known it  _had_ to be a secret without having to be told, because unspoken rules are always the most rigidly adhered to. Until he discovered what it meant.

He's been still ever since Irene touched him. His eyes have gone distant.

"Vera?" Irene slips a hand over one of his — he feels the tension in it, then — and crouches down in front of him, catching his eye. "We can stop here, if you want."

He does consider it. But her palm is warm against the back of his hand, and after a second's pause, her offer seems more like a challenge.


End file.
